Page 21 of The Chapel of Bones

‘No need. I’ll get our Darren to drop it off.’

Wesley thanked him, gratified to find such a co-operative potential witness. And as he watched Pam see Della off the premises, he experienced a sudden burst of optimism.

Sue Potter made her way upstairs to what she thought of as her ‘wardrobe department’. There was something she needed to do before the next morning, something that wouldn’t take long. She’d heard the telltale sound of a ripped seam when she’d taken her costume off the previous week, so she needed to try it on to make sure no mending needed to be done. She undressed and slipped on the wide skirt and bodice, and was immediately transformed into Mistress Potter, the ale wife. She twirled round in front of the full-length mirror, looking forward to the next day, when she could escape the worries of the present for a few hours and become somebody else from a completely different,and perhaps simpler, age. Even so, after receiving the note, she felt a little uneasy about leaving the house. But she told herself she was being overdramatic. This was Belsham, the pleasant Devon village that had become her refuge. It was probably someone from the re-enactment society’s idea of a joke and she should just forget all about it.

She heard a sound from downstairs, a knock on the front door. For a few moments she froze. Then she hoisted up her long skirts and crept down the carpeted staircase, her heart beating fast.

14

Two thousand pounds was to be placed in a supermarket carrier bag and left in the porch of Belsham church. After the drop had been made, the Waltons were to drive away and park at the other end of the village. Then they would receive instructions about where to find Bella.

After depositing the carrier bag in the dark shadows of the medieval church porch, leaving it on the stone bench as instructed, Mr Walton returned to the car.

‘It’s done,’ he said to his wife, who was close to tears.

‘Maybe we should have told our Trish that the drop was to be made tonight.’

‘We shouldn’t have told her anything,’ Mr Walton said sharply. ‘They said no police, but you couldn’t keep quiet, could you? If anything happens to Bella, it’ll be your fault.’

‘They couldn’t know our daughter’s a detective, could they?’ his wife said in a desperate whine. After so many years of placid marriage, they were sniping at each other, and it upset her.

Mr Walton hesitated. ‘They might have been watching us; doing their research.’

As he prepared to start the engine, he looked up and saw a figure approaching the porch. ‘Is that one of them?’

The man was striding confidently towards the church. The band of white at his throat, visible in the light of the full moon, looked very much like a dog collar.

‘Oh no. I think it’s the vicar.’

As the man entered the church, they saw the lights in the building go on, illuminating the stained-glass windows. A minute later, a dark-coloured van drew up. It paused for a moment, then drove away. Fast.

On Saturday morning, the air was filled with the sound of sackbuts, viols and crumhorns. The medieval festival in the grounds of Fontescue Hall was in full swing. Brightly coloured tents, modelled on the ones featured in old depictions of jousts, dotted the manicured lawn. The society prided itself on historical accuracy. Jousts themselves had been outlawed on health and safety grounds, but the rest of medieval life was there, re-enacted for the entertainment of the visitors. Falconry, food, crafts and clothing, and most important of all to some people, the beer tent, presided over by Mistress Potter, the ale wife. It was pure theatre, and many of the volunteers were also amateur thespians. Re-enactments provided them with a wonderful opportunity to dress up without the burden of having to learn lines and squabble with fellow players.

But there was one notable absence that morning: Mistress Potter herself. Someone had tried to ring her when she didn’t turn up, but there’d been no answer, and after a while her colleagues began to worry. It was suggested that somebody should go to Belsham to check that she was all right once the initial rush died down. What if she was ill? What if she’d collapsed at home and was lying unconscious? What if she’d had an accident on the way there?

In the end, it was agreed that Tom Bellow, the butcher from Neston who was providing the meat for the hog roast, should call in on his way home from the festival. Just to make sure Sue Potter was OK.

15

On Saturday morning, the Reverend Mark Fitzgerald was about to tuck into his breakfast, a hastily scrambled egg on singed toast, when he stopped, fork poised over his plate, and looked across the table at his wife. Maritia was busy telling their son, Dominic, that eating his hard-boiled egg and soldiers would make him grow into a big strong boy. She was a doctor, so she should know. The child looked sceptical and nibbled at one of the toast soldiers lined up on parade around his plate.

‘What do you think I should do about it?’ Mark sounded worried. It wasn’t every night he found a carrier bag containing two thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes lying in his church porch.

‘I’ll call my brother if you like.’

‘What do you think Wesley will say?’

‘He’ll probably tell you to hold onto it. Chances are it’s an anonymous donation to the church restoration fund. Let’s face it, with that work we had to do in the churchyard, it’s badly needed. Maybe some kind person’s taken pity on us.’ She sighed. ‘But I suppose we need to be absolutely certain, so put it in the vestry safe for the time being and see what happens. Did you see anybody about when you found it?’

‘I’m sure I heard a car drive off. And another vehicle, something bigger – a van maybe. But of course that might have had nothing to do with the money.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I should mention it at the service tomorrow.’

Before Maritia could offer her opinion, the doorbell rang, a common occurrence at Belsham vicarage. Some people thought the vicar ought to be available at all hours of the day and night. Mark jumped up to answer it, and a few moments later returned to the kitchen accompanied by a sprightly elderly woman with sensibly short grey hair and a worried expression.

‘I didn’t really know what to do, whether to call the police or . . .’

‘Sit down, Mrs Prothero. What’s the problem?’

Maritia gave the newcomer a smile. She liked Mrs Prothero, a Sunday-school teacher and one of the stalwarts of her husband’s congregation. The woman had welcomed her warmly when she’d first arrived in Belsham; unlike some others, who had treated her with distant caution.